Her Smile
by St. Harridan
Summary: A nameless, weathered warrior treads through unknown waters, drawn in by one woman's smile. Kenpachi/first!Yachiru


**Title: **Her Smile

**Author:** St. Harridan

**Rating:** T

**Fandom:** Bleach

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Zaraki Kenpachi x Yachiru I

**Theme:** 3 – Flashes of euphoria

**Genres:** Romance

**Warnings:** Kenpachi-style swearing.

**Words:** 1828

**Summary:** A nameless, weathered warrior treads through unknown waters, drawn in by one woman's smile. Pre-Seireitei.

**Disclaimer:** Do not own Bleach.

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Everyone is governed under one rule. That is a fact and nobody can change that. That rule states that there is a first time for everything. You won't know how good that ugly doughnut is till you've tried it. You won't know how lousy that girlfriend of yours is in bed till you've fucked her. Nobody can escape that first time. Those who do are cowards. Those who face it are either brave or downright stupid.

There lived a man in the 80th District. It was a place of violence in its purest form, reigned by the devil himself with his minions corrupting the hearts of men, women and even children. Not a day passed without bloodshed. Thieves and bandits, drunkards and murderers wandered the old hag's streets without restriction. One would wonder just what the hell that great fortress of Seireitei was doing, leaving such an unlawful district like this to waste.

The said man... He was no thief nor was he a bandit. He wasn't much of a drunkard either. That would have seemed odd since most of the residents of the district were heavy drunkards. Nearly all of them were thieves really, excluding those who managed to carry out an honest living by setting up farms and orchards. Those were model residents. Unfortunately, they were often plagued by bandit raids and the like.

A fighter, he was. A survivor of rough battles in the pub and bloody raids. He killed, yes, but just so that he could keep on living. Weaklings were best laid to rest or they'd suffer brutalities worse than death itself. There was a reason as to why he loved to fight. He had nothing else. There was no dream kept secret in his heart. No ambition, no nothing but the desire to test his strength against formidable opponents. Death was the ultimate price to pay just to have fun.

But this man, as unlawful and bloodthirsty as he appeared to be, was subjected to the laws of nature as well, just like any other individual. And so it came to pass that during one fateful evening he sat outside the pub, leaning against its wall of dried blood with a dirty bottle of sake in hand, when a woman unlike any other caught his eye. Well, to others she would seem to be another run-of-the-mill woman who could be turned into a successful harlot but to him, she was, as cliché as it could possibly be, one of a kind.

With a head of shoulder-length hair, dry and rough from negligence, framing an amicable face that boasted such soft angles, she was what one would say a foreigner to the 80th District. It was rare to find such a fine lady walking around freely without the fearful expression of a cornered rabbit. She was talking to a little boy whose hand was gripping that of another smaller girl, trying to persuade them to stop their cowering, when a couple of half-drunk men approached her with nasty sneers and snickers. Of course, women were never safe in this place. One of them was about to close his fingers around her wrist when a blade sliced through it, severing the hand from its joint. The man dispatched them without much effort. A few fucked up perverts who ain't got no life were no match for him.

When she smiled at him in gratitude, he didn't know what it was he felt. It was like nothing he ever felt nor dreamt of feeling before. The unknown emotion left him with a strange taste in his mouth.

Since that incident, he stayed by the pub every day, outside, so that he could catch a glimpse of the woman. She was always seen with a couple of children playing about, their merriment a sight to behold in the dark streets of the 80th. There were men who came to her, tried to talk to her. Men who weren't much of calibre. With his intimidating glare, he sent them away pissing their pants. She'd give him a smile sweeter than honey every time.

During one particularly horrid night, he stumbled through the streets, the only survivor of a bloody battle in the pub. Some dick wanted to toy with him, mocking him till he couldn't stand it any longer and was forced to send the son-ovva-bitch crashing into the opposite wall. It had been a fun fight though, with his friends ganging up on him. Tough, but fun. Until it started to rain. Thick fat droplets came pouring down as the heavens above parted to spill its wrath over the 80th. The gashes in his body stung as the cold bit into it. He sought shelter under a thin shade outside some old, abandoned warehouse used to store whores once upon a time.

That was when the door to the warehouse opened and the warm light of a lantern shone through the doorway, illuminating the wet night. He started, but then froze in place as the face of the woman appeared, soft features warm and homely as she gave him that smile of hers that was now etched into his mind.

"Let's get you out of the cold, eh?" she said. There was no pity in her eyes – which was good because pity was for the weak, and he was not weak. Only a sense of...respect for him that showed. She dared not step close to him for which he understood completely. There was every chance that he could kill her right then and there. For a long time, he didn't answer, simply stared at her face, losing himself to that smile of hers that was so enchanting but at the same time remaining wary. It was only when she had retreated back indoors that he got up and followed her. He kept his distance so as not to arouse any misunderstandings. He dressed his own wounds with the scraps of cloth he found around the warehouse. There was a long, thick cut on his back that made it impossible for him to nurse, so she offered to help. His whole body was as tense as could be as he felt her hot breath on his skin.

"Thanks," he muttered through gritted teeth once she was done, quickly looking away when she nodded with a smile. Early the next morning, he was gone. That afternoon he saw her again, as per usual, playing with a few children. To his puzzlement, she came over and asked him to join in. He refused, never one with an affinity towards little brats. But when the day was nearly done, he approached her – after an hour or two of debating with himself. At the view of her smile up close, the words – whatever they were – caught fast in his throat. He tried to force them out but they wouldn't come. Instead, he turned his face away with a mumbled, "Thanks."

A flash of surprise fleeted past her face before she put her hands together in front of her and bowed low. He was taken aback. Nobody ever bowed to him. Hell, no one ever bowed in _respect _in the 80th District but there she was.

"I'm the one who should thank you, sir," she said, and when she came back up, he was already walking away, the torn hem of his hakama billowing behind him in the sudden blast of wind.

The days passed like a slow agonizing but pleasant dream. He took up his post outside the pub, sipping on sake with his sword at the ready, and continued to watch her. Watch her and watch _over _her. No other man could get his grimy hands on her or he'd be nothing but a bloody pile of ruptured innards. It went on and on until one day she came to him with an old piece of clothing: a hakama. Despite the numerous stains that had stubbornly settled in the fibres of the fabric, its torn parts had been neatly sewed up and patched, ready to be used. He stared up at her blankly.

"I found this in the warehouse," she explained, sweat becoming visible from the intensity of his reiatsu. "It was torn, so I mended it. I...I stole the sewing kit from the house across the street. I don't think-" She was cut off instantly when he grabbed her forearm and pulled her down into a rough kiss. With his hand clutching a fistful of her hair, he pulled her head back to get a better angle and plunged his tongue into her mouth, hungrily ravishing her like his life depended on it. In some ways, it did. Her hands scrabbled around for something to hold onto, and she clutched his loose haori for support.

When they finally pulled away from each other, the first thought that came into his mind was that she was going to slap him. Which was in some ways good because really, he needed someone to slap some sense back into him. Since that first day that he set eyes on her, his common sense had been dwindling and today, when she said that she had stolen just for him, it vanished entirely. He hated thieves but to think that someone would actually go the extra lengths just to do it for _him_...

The slap never came. Instead, he revelled in the wide smile she presented him with, filled with nothing short of bliss. He himself felt it. Warmth pooled in the dark voids of his insides, enlightening him from within and spreading throughout his whole body.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Ain't got one." Confused, he blinked at the frown that took over her. But as soon as it started, it disappeared, replaced by a grin of certainty as she straightened up on her knees and took his face in her hands.

"That's okay," she whispered into his dry tresses like how a mother would to her hurt child. They stayed like that for a while. She started to stroke his hair, running her hands lightly over the long, rough strands as if to assure him that everything was going to be all right. He didn't need that reassurance. Tentatively, he snaked his muscular arms around her thin waist, bringing her closer to him, as close as they could get. Everything was already all right.

Those few months he spent just watching her were moments of vague happiness but somewhere in between those cracks there was also a feeling of distress. Frustration at the thought of only being able to _watch _something that he couldn't touch. Now, those fleeting moments of pleasure accumulated and finally burst with a finale that left him undeniably fulfilled.

Looking up at her, he finally asked:

"What's yours?"

With an endearing smile and a small chuckle that left him puzzled, she replied, "Yachiru."

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**R&R!**


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